It’s late, almost midnight; I’m tired, but wired. So what to do? Like the late night news, I’ll recap the day’s activities for those who are also still awake.
Today I went to my first football game since I was in high school. I never understood the game then; I went because that was where you met boys, boys who might dance with you at the Friday night mixer after the game. Maybe they’d even invite you to Homecoming.
But today I learned a lot about football, not only the game but also the context in which serious college football is played. (Let it be noted here that I graduated from a major university that has never had a football team, so the lack of knowledge I had in high school followed me into middle age.)
It took a trip to the University of Notre Dame in South Bend, Indiana (thanks to some friends of ours) to enlighten me. Football isn’t a sport there; it’s a religion. There is pageantry, marching bands, wild T-shirts proclaiming ND’s passion, the Goodyear blimp televising the whole thing, the stadium that holds 88,000 roaring fans, the history that dates to the late 1800s, the pride, the passion.
There is also Mr. Orange Arms.
Who is he? Well, he isn’t a member of the university greeting committee. Nor does he judge tryouts. He doesn’t even care if Notre Dame wins or loses. Mr. Orange Arms is in charge of television interruptions, otherwise known as commercials, for the nationally televised football game. He was in clear view for most of today.
I didn’t understand about Mr. Orange Arms, until my friend Jeannine filled me in. Until then I wondered why it took so long for various plays. Just when one team was ready to execute a play, they would stop and stand around. Finally, Jeannine told me that was because Mr. Orange Arms had strolled onto the field. She pointed him out; otherwise, I would never have seen him in the sea of faces.
Mr. Orange Arms looked like he was dressed for baseball, with a white visitor’s costume covering most of his body. But his arms, all the way to the elbows, were covered with what might have been rubber gloves with which to do dishes. They were bright orange.
Whenever Mr. Orange Arms strode onto the field, play stopped. He then stood there with his orange arms crossed, waiting – I presume – for a signal that play could resume. Then he would walk off the field. I only hope he got minimum wage for his efforts.
Later I learned that the television networks approach various universities with offers to pay to televise their games. Then, when the universities agree, the networks approach various sponsors to fill the commercial time. With the money from the sponsors, the networks pay the universities. It’s capitalism at its best.
So perhaps the offensive team is on a roll and is about to bear down on the opposition. But wait! Stop! Mr. Orange Arms comes on the field, and the team drops to its figurative knees. Maybe momentum is lost. Maybe the play that would have been never is.
I asked Earl about this, but he seemed satisfied with the situation. As for me, I think that when it takes an hour to complete one fifteen-minute quarter in a football game, there is something amiss. And that’s what happened today. The game between the University of Notre Dame and Michigan State took about four hours. I now understand that time-outs account for some of this delay, but I believe Mr. Orange Arms accounts for more.
